wrapped his hands
around her waist. She wouldn’t fight this. She had to submit, she wanted him
again.
She thirsted for his touch. She’d continue giving her entire
body, heart and soul to him and pray that in the end the only fire that would
burn them both would be the flames of their love.
The ghosts of her family would always haunt her, and she
suspected they also haunted Damien. Her family had suffered too much pain at
the hands of Damien’s and yet maybe the element to heal the scars between them
would be their fiery love. She had to give it a chance, she had to give him a
chance; she had to take another chance on love.
She lifted her hands up and reached back to caress his face.
He hadn’t shaved in a while and his five o’clock shadow bristled beneath her
palms. He used his magic and stripped her down to her skirt and bra.
He turned his face and kissed one of her hands and then
swept his hands down the length of her body, tracing a path to her back and
deftly unhooking her bra. Her brassiere fell to the floor, forgotten in their
lust for each other. Her nipples pebbled against the cool rush of air flowing
over them, and he cupped both breasts with his massive hands.
He kneaded them gently, making her body go wild from the
glorious sensations of his touch. He always had the ability to make her go
weak-kneed and absolutely at his mercy for whatever he wanted.
Electric bursts of sheer delight rushed through her,
preparing her for the shattering climax his ministrations would produce shortly.
If she had her way they would continue fucking well into the night.
She never wanted to leave his side. She wanted to drown out
the inner voice that told her to run from him and keep running and the only way
she knew how to do that was to let him continue to bring her pleasure. She
wanted to savor this moment and capture it in her memory for perpetuity.
She leaned against him, purposefully rubbing against his
groin, which caused him to let out a shattering moan that told her he was close
to losing his control. She would have to keep pushing him because she was ready
for him to lose it completely and give her what she craved—what she’d always
craved ever since she’d met him.
Living like a nun had almost driven her crazy with
distraction and it was probably why she’d gleaned such satisfaction out of
turning Oliver White and the other witch hunters into living wax dolls.
Her sexual frustration had done wonders for giving her the
edge she needed to take down all of the bloody witch hunters that pursued her.
Damien kissed her neck again, and she twisted in his arms to
meet his hungry lips with her own.
“You’re so beautiful, Anya. You look as if your beauty could
rival that of Aphrodite’s.”
“Aphrodite was a fair beauty while I’m a dark beauty born of
the night.”
It was true—she’d been born during the Spring Solstice as
the clock chimed midnight, otherwise known as the Witching Hour.
“Then you are my dark witchy beauty.” He kissed her again
and moved his hands to her skirt. Unzipping the zipper, he let her skirt fall to
a silky pile onto the floor. She ran her hands over his chest. The muscles
rippled beneath her hands.
He still wore his trousers, although his fly remained open.
She wanted him out of his clothes as soon as possible. She took a brief moment
to appreciate his ruggedly handsome looks.
His reddish brown hair caught the light reflecting from the
open balcony. The sun would set soon and drape the world in darkness. Nights on
Vanguard could be hauntingly beautiful or terrifyingly ugly.
She trailed her fingers down his chest, stopping to circle
her fingers around the star-shaped scar he had right above his left nipple. She’d
never taken the time to study his numerous scars—received in battles against
witches and warlocks no doubt.
“How did you get this one?” she asked, her voice sultry with
arousal.
Damien grimaced, momentarily wrenched out of their blissful
moment.
around her waist. She wouldn’t fight this. She had to submit, she wanted him
again.
She thirsted for his touch. She’d continue giving her entire
body, heart and soul to him and pray that in the end the only fire that would
burn them both would be the flames of their love.
The ghosts of her family would always haunt her, and she
suspected they also haunted Damien. Her family had suffered too much pain at
the hands of Damien’s and yet maybe the element to heal the scars between them
would be their fiery love. She had to give it a chance, she had to give him a
chance; she had to take another chance on love.
She lifted her hands up and reached back to caress his face.
He hadn’t shaved in a while and his five o’clock shadow bristled beneath her
palms. He used his magic and stripped her down to her skirt and bra.
He turned his face and kissed one of her hands and then
swept his hands down the length of her body, tracing a path to her back and
deftly unhooking her bra. Her brassiere fell to the floor, forgotten in their
lust for each other. Her nipples pebbled against the cool rush of air flowing
over them, and he cupped both breasts with his massive hands.
He kneaded them gently, making her body go wild from the
glorious sensations of his touch. He always had the ability to make her go
weak-kneed and absolutely at his mercy for whatever he wanted.
Electric bursts of sheer delight rushed through her,
preparing her for the shattering climax his ministrations would produce shortly.
If she had her way they would continue fucking well into the night.
She never wanted to leave his side. She wanted to drown out
the inner voice that told her to run from him and keep running and the only way
she knew how to do that was to let him continue to bring her pleasure. She
wanted to savor this moment and capture it in her memory for perpetuity.
She leaned against him, purposefully rubbing against his
groin, which caused him to let out a shattering moan that told her he was close
to losing his control. She would have to keep pushing him because she was ready
for him to lose it completely and give her what she craved—what she’d always
craved ever since she’d met him.
Living like a nun had almost driven her crazy with
distraction and it was probably why she’d gleaned such satisfaction out of
turning Oliver White and the other witch hunters into living wax dolls.
Her sexual frustration had done wonders for giving her the
edge she needed to take down all of the bloody witch hunters that pursued her.
Damien kissed her neck again, and she twisted in his arms to
meet his hungry lips with her own.
“You’re so beautiful, Anya. You look as if your beauty could
rival that of Aphrodite’s.”
“Aphrodite was a fair beauty while I’m a dark beauty born of
the night.”
It was true—she’d been born during the Spring Solstice as
the clock chimed midnight, otherwise known as the Witching Hour.
“Then you are my dark witchy beauty.” He kissed her again
and moved his hands to her skirt. Unzipping the zipper, he let her skirt fall to
a silky pile onto the floor. She ran her hands over his chest. The muscles
rippled beneath her hands.
He still wore his trousers, although his fly remained open.
She wanted him out of his clothes as soon as possible. She took a brief moment
to appreciate his ruggedly handsome looks.
His reddish brown hair caught the light reflecting from the
open balcony. The sun would set soon and drape the world in darkness. Nights on
Vanguard could be hauntingly beautiful or terrifyingly ugly.
She trailed her fingers down his chest, stopping to circle
her fingers around the star-shaped scar he had right above his left nipple. She’d
never taken the time to study his numerous scars—received in battles against
witches and warlocks no doubt.
“How did you get this one?” she asked, her voice sultry with
arousal.
Damien grimaced, momentarily wrenched out of their blissful
moment.
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